Falling Forward
by KateToast
Summary: It goes slowly. If it didn't, I would fall back into my nightmares and my grief and never come out again, no matter who tried to coax or demand or plead. After months of darkness, sunlight peeks through. Katniss starts over. Pre-epilogue.
1. Daylight

**A/N**: The first part of a relatively short chaptered tale, set after Katniss returns to District 12 at the end of _Mockingjay_, but before the epilogue.

**XXX**

It goes slowly. It has to; if it happened too quickly, I would fall back into my nightmares and my grief and never come out again, no matter who tried to coax or demand or plead. After months of darkness, sunlight peeks through.

It begins around the time I wake to a shovel scraping outside the house, not part of a dream but a real, startling noise. Then I'm face-to-face with him, thin and scarred and an incredible sight for sore Seam eyes. I haven't realized how much I've missed Peeta Mellark until he is in front of me toting a wheelbarrow full of primrose bushes, his eyes the clearest they've been since the Quarter Quell.

Seeing him looking so whole makes me too aware of what a mess I am, outside and in, and so I let Peeta plant the primroses around my house while I burn things, throw open windows and doors, scrub myself clean, untangle my ragged hair. By the time I go out to hunt, Peeta is gone, and I'm torn between relief that I don't have to face him again today and something harder to pinpoint that makes me long to catch another glimpse.

It's a big reunion day: not only does Peeta return, but Buttercup reappears at the house. It's another part of my recovery when my old feline nemesis and I break down and comfort each other, missing someone who won't return, united in grief. I have fewer nightmares in the hours of despair-induced sleep I get with the ugly cat guarding over me. More memories of Prim, not burning, but laughing.

My truce with Buttercup spurs me on to call my mother. So much progress in just two days for the girl who could hardly leave a chair for months.

Greasy Sae barges in with her usual "Morning", carrying supplies to cook up breakfast. Her granddaughter hasn't accompanied her today. I'm watching her take out a pan when there's a cough in the doorway, making me turn.

"I thought you'd like some bread," Peeta tells me, holding out the fresh loaf, almost like a peace offering.

I think of when he choked me, when he was wild, when I couldn't recognize him in is eyes. I had thought I'd lost him for good. Now he's here, once more the boy with the bread.

I want to thank him for planting the flowers. Instead I just nod. He steps inside, the scent of the bread wafting over to me. Delicious. As I grab a knife, I snag another plate.

**XXX**

Early summer and it's warm. Peeta arrives for breakfast, loaf in hand; he always brings over extra of whatever he's made that morning. Today it's raisin and walnut.

I'm setting down my game bag by the door when he comes in, Greasy Sae already cooking at the stove. We sit at the table and begin on the loaf, and the usual conversation takes place. Idle chat about his baking and painting; my hunting. Greasy Sae interjects with her own commentary; a good buffer for the moments Peeta and I have where we don't know what to say. There is too much between us, and sometimes the things we don't speak sound too loud.

"How's the bakery coming?" I ask after a lull. We've each eaten two slices of the raisin and walnut in the silence.

"Good," Peeta nods. "I should be able to open it before winter." He wants to move back into the old family storefront, part of the district reconstruction.

"That's great," I say sincerely. Another bite and then I yawn, unable to stifle it.

Peeta is eyeing me. "Tired?"

"Haven't been sleeping well." He knows what I mean. I spend most nights waiting for the sun so I can go out hunting and occupy my mind with strategy. Sometimes, when a particularly nasty dream wakes me, I debate calling Peeta and asking if he'll come over and hold me. He's been the remedy to my nightmares before. Of course, we aren't exactly back at that point yet. We're both making progress, but it's painstakingly slow.

"Me either," he confides, and I notice the bags under his eyes. Have they been there this whole time? I try not to look at his face often, fearing that crazed, hateful expression towards me will return if I stare too long.

We end up discussing some of the people in town, the stores opening; safe, casual exchanges. We're trying to learn each other again. I wonder how often he thinks about our nights on the Victory Tour, when it was just he and I in my room on the train. I think about it more than I probably should.

**XXX**


	2. Postcards from Far Away

**A/N**: Thank you, reviewers! And others who read the first chapter. And hopefully those that will read this in the future.

**XXX**

By mid-summer, breakfast is a daily thing between Peeta and me. Greasy Sae comes over to cook less when it becomes obvious I'm not going on another hunger strike any time soon. The days when she isn't there we eat bread and butter and drink juice or milk; I still haven't found an appreciation for coffee. Sometimes I attempt eggs, with mixed results. If I weren't so stubborn I'd admit that I should probably just let Peeta do the cooking.

We begin to talk about the first reaping, the first Games. It isn't as difficult as I expected, though I'd expected to not be able to speak of anything at all. The mere fact that I can drudge up the memories and say them aloud is a wonder. I still can't say Prim's name, and Peeta doesn't push.

One night, Greasy Sae is rushing around the kitchen concocting something for dinner. I'm trying not to think of my sister, or my father, or Cinna, or Finnick, or anyone really, when the door opens. I smell it first, cheesy and fresh, and then see Peeta stepping inside with my bread of choice. He never knocks.

I meet him halfway and actually smile, quite a rare feat. "The cheese buns," I say, mouth watering.

Peeta is unusually bashful. "I remembered it was your favorite, I figured you may like a few." He's carrying an entire tray full.

"You figured right," I say, and then gesture to the table. "Did you want to stay for dinner?" It seems natural to invite him; we already share one meal a day, why not another?

He's uncertain, probably worried about overstepping boundaries, but finally nods. In a surprising turn, Greasy Sae finishes cooking, packs up a helping, and bids us good night, making some excuse about needing to get home and check on her grandkids.

Not much changes day to day for Peeta and me, just bread and woods. Our relatively mundane topics are quickly exhausted, so we tentatively begin bringing up memories. We finish the rabbit stew and gorge ourselves on the buns over a silly conversation about Finnick from before the Quarter Quell. I haven't laughed in so long that the noise sounds unnatural echoing around the kitchen. Once our chuckles subside his death hangs between us, one of the many.

I get up and poke at the fire. I spend a lot of time thinking (or trying not to think) about the people we lost, the loved ones who died or sacrificed themselves so Peeta and I can sit here and eat dinner in the united nation of Panem, no Hunger Games looming.

"What are you thinking about?" Peeta asks from his seat at the table. His voice is soothing to my grief, and a welcome change from the usual quiet the night brings. I wonder if he gets as lonely in the dark as I do, both of us shut up in our houses too big for one person.

"Remember that plant book you helped me with?" I imagine it, sitting in a drawer in my bedroom upstairs, Peeta's beautiful drawings on the pages.

"Of course," he says, though I know if I had asked the same question months ago, when he was still hijacked, that he would have answered quite differently.

I keep staring at the flames. I'm growing hot, standing so close to the fire. "I was thinking of making another book. More of a history book," I explain, turning to look at Peeta. "About… everything that's happened. Everyone we lost."

I want to honor the dead, the past; not many know more about what has happened than Peeta and me. And Haymitch. The new government, of course, but I'm not about to ask them for input. This is my adventure, _my_ undertaking.

And Peeta's, if he'll help. His blue eyes are fixed on me. My fear of watching his face has disappeared; now I can't get enough of studying his kind features. "I thought maybe you could help me."

He stands from the table and walks to me so we're side-by-side. "Of course I'll help you," he answers softly, glancing to the fire. I'm sure he's thinking of his family, burning in the destruction of 12. Another horrible thing we don't talk about much. He looks back at me. "I think it's a wonderful idea."

When Dr. Aurelius calls the next day to check in, I tell him of my plan.

**XXX**

The thick parchment paper arrives two weeks later. Peeta comes over twice a day now, an unspoken decision. He usually brings his beautiful hand-frosted cookies. That evening after Greasy Sae has gone we settle down on the floor by the fire. We're surrounded by pieces of scrap I've been scribbling on, and Peeta's pencils and paint. I put the parchment between us and we're silent.

"I don't know where to start," I say. "There's so much."

"Let's start with what we remember best," Peeta decides. He grabs a nearby picture. Prim, of course, smiling sweetly, the only way she knew how.

We work on the book for hours, trying to get down as many details as possible. Our hands grow tired from writing and drawing; mine begins shaking from the careful precision. Eventually, after the fire is dead, Peeta reminds me that we don't have to finish the book in one night. When he leaves through the side door I grab his hand and hold on, feel him squeeze back. No words pass; none are needed.

**XXX**


	3. The Hardest Part

**A/N**: Thanks readers and reviewers!

**XXX**

Starting the book has forced us to open up again, not just to each other, but to ourselves. Events and people I didn't think I could ever speak of tumble from my mouth, sometimes strained, sometimes with a laugh, usually with hastily swiped wet eyes.

Peeta draws an amazing picture of Rue, my favorite way of remembering her: like a bird about to take flight, like the Mockingjay I tried to represent during the war. I fill pages and pages with my family: my mother's healing work, Prim's short but vivid life, and everything I learned from my father, from his hunting strategies to the songs he sang. Peeta tells me of his family, less detailed, and I write it all down. He finds a picture of the Mellarks: father, mother, three boys. We go back and forth mentioning things about each other to put down: Peeta's artistry, my hunting skills, his baking, my headstrong tendencies, his way with words.

We try to cover the Games as best we can, get very specific about the 74th and the Quarter Quell, write as much as possible about our fellow tributes, the older victors who became rebels. Peeta draws a lovely portrait of Finnick and Annie. One day in the early fall I receive a photo of a baby in the mail – the newborn who will never meet his father. We put his picture under the one of his parents.

Deciding we need more information on past Games, we rouse Haymitch from one of his drunken stupors and drag him over to my house. He's unwilling at first, but my determination and dedication to the task finally get to him and he starts talking. He joins us for meals a few nights a week. The mentor and his tributes – the survivors. Peeta and I turn down the liquor whenever he offers.

We're running out of things to put into the book. The train has come into town, so Haymitch has a replenished stock of liquor at home.

"Can't interest either of you in a drink?" he asks, heading to the door. He doesn't sound hopeful – just offering, one neighbor to another. I have no interest in repeating the night I got drunk with him.

Peeta and I both say "No thanks" and watch our mentor cross the yard. I close the door on the crisp dark and clasp my hands behind my back.

Peeta has been staying later each night, despite the diminishing of information to put into the book. But it's gotten to the point where a reason no longer needs to exist for him to stay until he wants. I like having him here, filling the mocking quiet, not pushing, just comforting. He may be the one person in the world I could possibly be like this with, after everything. I used to think I would only have this sort of relationship with Gale and Prim, where we just _got_ each other, but now he's in District 2, and she's dead, and I'm here.

We spend some time sitting on the couch talking about little, art mostly. Peeta loves to discuss painting. He has fewer tracker jacker flashbacks, not as many moments where I lose him to the hijacking for the briefest of terrifying seconds. It helps him to explain mixing colors and filling a canvas.

My eyes are growing heavy though, from my long day in the woods and the cool breeze coming in through the open window. I want to ask him to stay every time he leaves, but haven't had the courage. When he sees my exhaustion and stands to go tonight, however, I stop him.

"Peeta," I say. His hand, the hand that has killed men and women, that has decorated cakes and canvases, that has kept me alive, is sweaty in my grasp.

"Katniss," he answers, waiting. Because I must be the one to make the move, not him. I'm the wild card.

"Stay," I say. He doesn't comment, just lets me lead him upstairs to my room. It's something we've done countless times, yet when I pull back the covers and we lay down and he pulls me against him, it feels new. The knots in my stomach loosen as I drift asleep.

Toward dawn I startle awake, panting and sweating, my mind back in the Capitol, underground with the mutts chasing us, Prim and Finnick being devoured as I watch helplessly and his newborn son screaming at me for killing his father. Peeta tightens his hold on me, shushing my fears.

**XXX**

His things begin making their way into my house. A shirt there, a jacket here, a few art supplies scattered around, a fancy loaf pan in the kitchen. I'm surprised by how little it bothers me, when I stumble over something of his as I'm packing for the day.

I still shudder at even the thought of the word _marriage_, but I do like the companionship Peeta provides. He takes care of me. He makes me eat when I'm too dazed to remember, makes me laugh when I want to cry, makes me blush under his gaze, urges me to sing, and reassures me after the nightmares. Plus, he calls me on my bullshit.

I miss him when we're apart during the day, when he's baking or decorating or painting, and I'm in the woods or selling game in town or watching Haymitch yell at his new geese.

In my bed we cling to each other, trying to fend off the dreams. Sometimes we both spend all night awake, physically together but worlds apart. Usually Peeta falls asleep and I lie there and try to count his breaths, or repeat some simple phrases like they had me do back in 13: _My name is Katniss Everdeen. I'm eighteen years old. I was in the Hunger Games. I was in a war. My sister is dead. My mother is in District 4. Peeta is sleeping. Haymitch has geese. I lost an arrow today…_

The mornings don't vary much, either. Get out of bed, stretch, ignore the ghosts perched at my peripherals. Peeta goes home for a while, bakes, returns with something filling and delicious. Then we go our separate ways until dinner.

Then one morning Peeta comes into my kitchen with cinnamon wheat and kisses me full on the mouth before even putting the loaf down. No hello, no warning, just a plain kiss.

When he pulls back I see he isn't surprised by his actions. He seems pleased with himself. I'm stuck in a confused, elated, unhappy swirl that probably looks like a machine overheating.

Peeta ignores my reaction and finds a knife, slices the bread. "Can you get the butter, Katniss?" he asks so casually I could slap him.

The only words I give him over breakfast are "yes" and "no", since I'm busy processing, but when he stands to leave I jump up as well, my long braid bouncing.

"You kissed me," I say.

Peeta nods in the doorway. "Yes." I can see the smirk he's attempting to hide.

I take menacing steps forward. "You – _kissed_ me, out of nowhere."

Now he looks abashed. "Katniss, I didn't—… I just wanted to," he shrugs. "I've _wanted_ to."

I consider this. I don't know how to tell him that I understand perfectly, because my lips miss his. I didn't appreciate the contact before, in the Games, when I thought it was just for show. But since I saw him planting primroses outside my house I've itched to taste him again. Every night as we lay together in the dark I think how easy it would be, but then I lose steam. Some girl on fire I am.

I don't give Peeta an actual response. Instead I close our distance and kiss him lightly, a peck goodbye, my hand on his arm.

"Please be patient with me," I say, quieter than intended.

"Always," he says, an echoed promise, like no other exists.

**XXX**


	4. Glass Of Water

**A/N**: So sorry for the long delay. A reviewer requested more Haymitch, and funnily enough I had planned a little Haymitch-Katniss interlude. Still not sure if I have his voice correct, let me know what you think. Thank you to readers and reviewers. Almost done with this story already!

(Fun fact: the chapter titles are actually various Coldplay songs.)

**XXX**

I decide to drop in on Haymitch when his geese start wandering into my yard, honking for attention. My former mentor hasn't shown up at dinnertime with a growling belly for two weeks, and though I refuse to admit it aloud (especially to Peeta, who would just smirk and tease about how much I really care for the old drunk), I'm concerned. It only takes a small extra push (and the promise of cheese buns) from the good-hearted baker to get me stopping by Haymitch's on my way out to hunt.

Knocking yields no open door, even though I hammer louder with every rap for a good five minutes. When courtesy fails, I loop around the side of the house and spy a half-open window, and with little difficulty pry it open further and slip through.

My sense of smell is assaulted first: a horrifying combination of dirty clothes, alcohol, geese, and what I can only assume is vomit. I haven't been in Haymitch's residence since before the Quarter Quell, and despite the war it seems the saying is true: some things never change.

The aging victor himself sits slumped in a chair at the table, a bottle tipped precariously in his grasp. His half-opened eyes wander to rest on me as I near.

"Oh. It's you," he says in his best surly greeting. "Expected the boy to break down and check in on me first."

"We drew straws and I lost." I gingerly step into his space and take the mostly-empty liquor bottle from his grasp, then place it on the counter. Silently, I begin shuffling trash and attempting to bring some semblance of order to the chaos.

Haymitch belches loudly. "You don't need to do that."

"I know," I say, and continue my poor excuse for cleaning up. I find a not-disgusting glass and fill it with water, bring it to the man who I probably owe my life to multiple times over.

"Have you been eating?" I ask briskly.

"I've been drinkin'," he answers. A hiccup follows.

I sit down in the unoccupied seat across the table. "You've stopped coming over."

"Mind not as sharp as it used to be, eh, sweetheart? Took you two weeks to notice. I bet Peeta had to send you over."

"I noticed a week ago. What happened? Full stomach no longer to your liking? Did Greasy Sae cook up something that offended you?" I cross my arms over my chest and pin him with a frown, one pair of Seam eyes to the other.

"Started feeling a little claustrophobic," Haymitch explains.

My frown deepens. "What – my kitchen?"

Haymitch doesn't answer. He puts an elbow on the table and his head lolls onto his fist. He seems to be blearily watching his geese out of the window.

"Did _I _do something, Haymitch?" I continue to stare at him.

He takes a long time, maybe formulating a response, maybe lost in a memory, probably just wondering when the next train arrives with more alcohol. But he does finally answer: "Listen, sweetheart, a person would have to be an idiot to not see what's going on."

I wait for further explanation, and when none comes I prompt, "What's going on?"

"You and Peeta," Haymitch says, and then he gets unsteadily to his feet and brings his empty water glass to the sink. He fills it and takes a few more gulps. "It wasn't real before, but it's real now. Isn't it."

He isn't asking; he's stating. I shift in my seat, glance away from his increasingly alert stare. I'm still not very good at opening up. I can only imagine how frustrated it makes Peeta, who wants us to share everything with each other. It isn't that I want to hold things back; I'm just usually no good with words.

"It is," I confirm with a shrug. "But I don't understand why what's going on between me and Peeta affects you coming over to eat a meal with us or not."

"Katniss," Haymitch says, shaking his head. He scrubs a hand along his stubbly face. "You don't understand."

The use of my name gives me pause. This is Haymitch being Real, instead of Sarcastic or Rude.

"It's hard to watch you two," he admits. "Not that I've ever liked watching you two – glorified babysitting is what it's been a lot of the time," he adds gruffly.

"Thanks," I say sourly. I stand and make for the door. If he's going to refer to my time in the Games as babysitting, then I'm going to call this visit a wash.

Before I reach the knob he adds, "I'm jealous."

I'm reeled back in, just like that. "Jealous? Of me and Peeta?"

"Is it that surprising?" he asks, and now I notice the edge of pain in his voice which I can't recall ever hearing before. I muse that the months we've spent dwelling on feelings since the war have made both me _and_ Haymitch a bit less rough around the edges – I don't know why I've assumed I'm the only one changing.

He slumps into his chair again, and I move back to mine. I hadn't noticed in my surprise, but he's somehow procured another bottle, which he opens with unsteady hands. He doesn't look at me. "After so long the old Capitol bastards are taken out and we've got ourselves a damn brand new regime, and the Hunger Games are over."

"We fought hard for that," I say fiercely, thinking of Cinna, Finnick. Prim. Always, my sister.

"I know that," Haymitch cuts in harshly, taking a long drink. "I was a part of that rebellion since your parents were kids, long before you became the Mockingjay, sweetheart."

He fixes his gray eyes on me. I don't know if it's because he's drunk, but they look uncharacteristically moist. "I lost everything because of the goddamn Capitol. _Everything_," he stresses, banging a fist on the table. "But at least when there was a cause I had something to focus on. Something to fight against, for what I lost."

Suddenly I remember the interview Finnick did, where he revealed how Hunger Games victims were really treated, the abuses and exploitations. I know that Haymitch didn't bend to the Capitol's whims, and he must have paid dearly for it.

Sympathy floods into me, for the first time in a long time. I've been feeling so bad about myself since returning to 12, so focused on my little world, on what I'm attempting to embark on with Peeta – I haven't even asked Haymitch how he's been doing with everything.

"You told me once that you'd had someone…" I say slowly.

Haymitch sips his liquor. "I had a family, too. A life."

Looking at it from the perspective of someone who lost _everything_, I can see why Haymitch would want to get distance from Peeta and me. "You've still got us," I say quietly. "No matter what's happening between me and Peeta."

Before, my mentor would have probably laughed in my face at those words. Now he just makes circles on the bottle with his thumb. "You're going soft on me, sweetheart. Where's the girl on fire?"

"She's taking an extended vacation."

Silence reigns. I wish Peeta were here, saying just what needed to be said. As if reading my thoughts, Haymitch speaks: "This is an agonizing conversation, eh?"

"Come have dinner with us tonight," I say. "Greasy Sae is probably going to bring her granddaughter. And Peeta promised cheese buns."

"Maybe," Haymitch says noncommittally.

I don't know what else to say or do, and figure Haymitch is sick of me by now, so I stand and head to the door. "If you don't come over tonight, I'm going to come back tomorrow and make sure you haven't died."

Haymitch snorts. "Send the boy, isn't it his turn?"

I take this as a sign that my visit hasn't been for naught.

Later that night we're mid-way through a delicious chicken dish when the door opens and Haymitch saunters in, looking much more sober and put-together than this morning. Peeta jumps up to get him a chair, Greasy Sae rushes to prepare a plate, and I just watch the older man, eyebrow cocked and a slight smirk on my lips at my personal victory.

"Couldn't stay away?" I ask.

"Don't give yourself too much credit, sweetheart. I could smell the chicken from my house."

Peeta sits back down beside me and leans over to mumble in my ear. He places a warm hand on my thigh. "Guess you got through to him earlier?"

"He just needed to vent," I explain, shrugging to mask the pleasant shiver the light contact has given me. "He just wants to belong."

"Hey, lovebirds," Haymitch says suddenly. "At least wait until I'm not listening to talk about me."

"Your attitude has been sorely missed at the table," Peeta chuckles, smiling good-naturedly at our mentor. Haymitch and I share a quick look, and if I didn't know better I'd say he offers me a little smile.

**XXX**


	5. Viva la Vida

**A/N**: And this is the end! Of this story, at least. Hopefully I am inspired in the future to write more Hunger Games.

Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed! Hope you enjoyed this little thing.

**XXX**

Peeta, Haymitch and I are doing a round of "Real or Not Real". Every few weeks Peeta repeats questions, trying to assuage the doubts that creep into his mind, to make sure he's still with us and not back under Snow's control. I hope over time the questions will become less frequent, because watching his face crumble is excruciating.

"Delly visiting me in the hospital when I first got to Thirteen... real or not real?"

"Real," Haymitch and I respond.

"The force field during the Quarter Quell, it knocked me out… but Finnick Odair saved me–"

"Real."

He rubs his wrists absentmindedly. "The manacles…"

I brush his arm, remembering how he would twist the metal into his flesh. "Real."

This continues until the phone rings. Peeta sits puzzling over what we've told him, and Haymitch munches on bread, pumpkin today, while I answer. His damn geese are making quite a racket outside.

I'm surprised when it isn't Dr. Aurelius or my mother, but another familiar voice. "May I please speak with Katniss Everdeen?"

"Gale?" So thrown off, I actually laugh. "I think that's the most polite I've ever heard you."

"What can I say? District Two has improved my manners," he jokes.

Hearing the name Gale has caught Peeta and Haymitch's attentions. They wear different expressions.

"How are you?" I haven't spoken to Gale since before I killed Coin, though my mother and Greasy Sae keep me informed. He's sent letters, only some of which I've opened. It's been too hard to reach out to him myself, Prim's death between us like thick fog. And we've both been busy: he's been rising in the ranks in 2, gaining prestige. And I've been… well; I've been in 12, trying to sort my life out.

"How about I tell you in person, Catnip?" he asks.

The old nickname only stirs up feelings of home, of the days when I was a young girl wandering the woods. I don't feel longing, romantic or otherwise, for Gale, even after this extended absence. I fight the flashes of the bomb exploding, my sister's last moments. "Are you coming to Twelve?"

"I'm in Twelve now."

"What?"

I hear the unmistakable sound of a hovercraft landing outside. I rush to the door and throw it open, watch as Gale steps onto the grassy expanse across the street. We make our way to each other and embrace, and he smells like Gale, but it's faint. Not as much time spent in the woods, I guess.

"You look great, Katniss," he tells me sincerely, even though the skin grafts and scars can't be missed. At least I don't look so emaciated anymore.

"You, too," I answer honestly, because he does look nice. Polished, dark hair cropped short, handsome face filled out more than I've ever seen. Still, no desire stirs within me.

Peeta and Haymitch wander outside and shake hands with Gale, exchanging hellos and how-are-yous. Gale doesn't miss Peeta standing so close to me, sees the comfortable way he invades my space, touches the small of my back.

Haymitch takes off to meander through town and see what's going on in the square, but most likely to actually buy a few extra bottles of white liquor. Gale looks at me and I look at Peeta and Peeta looks in the distance between me and Gale, and then says, "I'm going to let you two catch up."

"Peeta—" I start, but he waves me off.

"No. You guys should spend some time together." His voice isn't bitter or distrustful, just matter-of-fact, if a bit worn. "I need to check on some loaves, anyway."

Gale and I watch Peeta retreat to his house, and then turn to each other. "So, are you still hunting every day?" Gale asks, breaking the tension.

We begin walking with light conversation. Neither of us mentions Prim, a subject too painful to broach. One day, maybe, we'll sit and hash it out, set aside blame and work on forgiveness. Not now, though. Now we just ignore the massive animal stalking our steps.

We keep stopping so Gale can talk with those who recognize him. He tells me about District 2 in an excited, serious rush. His family has set up there, as well. He is as passionate and fiery as ever about freedom, about rebuilding, and uses only his harshest words for the old Capitol. And then he is asking me questions about my life in 12. I tell him about the book, about my hunting, how I'm slowly rejoining the growing community.

"And Peeta?" Gale sounds about as bitter as Peeta did earlier, which is to say, not at all. "How are things with him?"

"He's much better," I say. "He's so involved with the bakery, it's a good distraction."

"It's probably not the only one," Gale says knowingly, raising an eyebrow. We're leaning against a tree by the Meadow, trying not to think of the bodies.

I'm not going to tell Gale that Peeta and I have fallen into an easy routine, holding hands by the fire and kissing in the quiet dark of my room. We save it for when we can be assured it's just us, remembering the cameras, the intrusion, the act. "Are you seeing anyone in Two?" I deflect.

"Not really." Gale looks forward, frowning a little. "This is too much, isn't it? Us living such separate lives. For so long it was just you and me."

"We've been through a lot." _Prim_, I want to say, the blatant explanation. But Gale knows this, needs the reminder as much as I do. "I can't even tell the difference between what's weird and what's normal anymore."

"I don't know either," he says. "But I think things are beginning to get normal. As normal as they'll be from now on, anyway."

We walk back to the Victor's Village. Gale talks about the new people populating his life, how much he enjoys his work.

"I've got to get along to Thirteen," he says as we near the hovercraft. It's dark by now. "But I'm so glad I could see you, Katniss."

"You, too," I respond, and we hug. I add, "Keep in touch," more for myself than him, but only time will tell.

**XXX**

Peeta doesn't come back that night after Gale leaves. But he does show up to breakfast the next morning, Greasy Sae and Haymitch just behind him. The four of us eat comfortably, until Greasy Sae starts asking about Gale. Then Peeta excuses himself to go to the bakery.

I'm getting frustrated, not because Peeta is acting jealously, but because of his lack of acting _anything_ other than aloof. He isn't giving me a chance to explain myself, even though I know I don't owe a thing. I _want _to answer to him, which is such a new and scary idea for me that I don't linger on it.

He comes back for dinner, and it's just the two of us. He kisses me in greeting, as usual. We have leftovers. Peeta is perfectly normal. I'm starting to think I'm the one most troubled by Gale's visit.

"Gale said that Beetee says to say hello." I watch Peeta for a reaction of some sort. Nothing but mild interest crosses his face.

"Old Beetee," he says fondly. "They're working together still?"

"Yes, on some projects," I say. "Gale said he was going to try to visit again soon. Maybe if he does you could join us."

Peeta sees the game I'm playing. After being through so much together, he knows my tricks too well. "I was a little surprised when he stopped by," he admits. "I stayed away because I figured you had things to discuss. I didn't want to get in the middle of you two. Again," he adds, an afterthought.

I want to scream at his ridiculous insinuation. Instead I say firmly, "There's nothing to get in the way of."

His blue eyes are searching my face, as if he isn't sure he can believe my word, despite all this time we've spent falling forward together. Then I remember how it was at first, when we were the Capitol's star-crossed lovers. A lie. My feelings always torn between the boy with the bow and the boy with the bread. Suddenly I can't blame Peeta; I've been waffling between he and Gale long enough to create endless doubts.

"Really," I add. Softer. I hope he gets it. Luckily, Peeta's not an idiot.

"All right," he says, and the matter is dropped. He offers me one of his intricately frosted cookies; sugary stars shooting across navy cream.

We settle on the couch, munching and looking over our book. At this point we spend more time reading it and admiring the pictures than trying to come up with more to write.

It's well after midnight when we enter my room. Tonight feels differently from the countless other nights when Peeta has curled up with me. Maybe it's because I slept fitfully alone last night, or maybe it's Gale's visit, but the entire house seems to buzz, even after all of the lights are out.

We settle in under the covers, my back to his chest, but I'm wide awake. I can tell from his breathing that Peeta is as well. His arms tighten around my middle and suddenly I know what's different.

I'm not just pleased for Gale, that he is enjoying his life in 2 and moving on. And it isn't just about me letting him go, letting go of that future I used to sometimes think about between us. It's that in seeing my old hunting partner and best friend again after the calm months with Peeta, I can finally admit that all I really want is the boy with the bread. There's nothing to be confused about anymore, because the decision is made. It's been made for years, even before the rebellion, before the guns and bombs and blood we can't wash away.

I want to tell Peeta. I want to explain to him that Gale's fire and drive is wonderful, but not what I'm looking for. I want to explain to him that seeing Gale reminded me that we're too similar in personality, in our Seam eyes, to balance each other out. I want to explain to Peeta that it is he, with his words and his love, the way he grounds me – this is what I need, this is _how_ I need to spend my life.

But I'm no good with speeches, as anyone on the rebel propos team during the war can attest. So instead I whisper, "Peeta," and gently turn to face him. His blonde hair is messy against the pillow, his eyes as clear as ever. He smells like flour. He's watching me intently, waiting. Always waiting, so patiently, like he promised.

I kiss him. It's nothing special, just like many kisses we've shared before. But when I open my eyes and he's still looking at me, so seriously, so – _hungrily_, I suddenly feel it, that fire inside of me that took hold on the beach in the Quarter Quell and in the cave before that. Peeta has looked at me like this before, but I don't think I've ever allowed myself to look back quite the same, until now.

"Peeta," I say again, another whisper. His hand slips from my back, up along my shoulder, my neck, into my messy hair. I stroke his cheek, along a small scar he's picked up in our time together, one of many. I lean forward and kiss it softly. I feel free in my newfound security, a bird taking flight.

He pulls my body closer to his so we are right against each other, chest to chest, legs tangled. "Katniss," he says. I hear the pleading in his voice, which before I would pretend to not notice.

We kiss again, lips brushing then parting then moving, his on my neck, down my shoulder, mine on his forehead, nose, cheeks, until we're panting and he's staring down into my eyes, half-above me, his fingers light on the hem of my shirt, asking permission. I nod through my nerves and he pulls the shirt over my head, lets it drop on the floor. I do the same with his, hands shaking. Have seen him almost fully naked before, but never quite in this way.

He pushes some hair from my face and I feel his hand tremble, too. I've forgotten – I'm not in this alone. I've never been in this alone. I think of everything that's been insinuated in the past about us, my opposing labels: _naïve_ or _slut_, depending on who you asked.

We were Panem's star-crossed lovers. We were married. We were pregnant. We were actually none of those things.

"Katniss," Peeta repeats, bringing me back. He's as experienced in this mysterious territory as I am. "I love you."

I lean up and kiss him again, discarding the clothes that separate us until it's just he and I under the covers, nothing else. No more barriers to bring down. He is gentle, could probably never be anything but, and once the surprise and discomfort has subsided it's natural, the boy with the bread and the girl on fire, absolutely together. Like a reward for our hardships. Both of us so broken, trying to become whole again.

We shift and fumble and move uncertainly, find a rhythm, kiss and touch and explore. I'm conscious of his prosthetic leg, the skin grafts that mar both of our bodies like unwanted, matching tattoos.

But there's a hunger in me that I'd never known was there, one I embrace like salvation while my hands memorize every centimeter of Peeta's back, his chest, his face. Then it feels like the entire universe is burning, embers becoming flames, everything red-hot and glorious, but it's only this little world Peeta and I have created between us. For just us, no audience to please. And then it's over and we come back down from the stars and lay together, heavy breathing and sweaty.

Everyone is still dead. The nation is still settling. I still don't want marriage or kids. How has nothing and _everything_ suddenly changed with this one act?

Peeta's baker painter lover's hand runs a small path up and down my cooling back, and every so often he kisses my hair. That's how: everything is still the same, but now we are more.

I lift my head so I can look at him. He's smiling at me; his eyes crinkle adorably in the corners. The hungry, lustful gaze has lessened to a warm consideration. He asks: "You love me. Real or not real?"

The easy answer rises to my lips. I would have – _should_ have – said it so much sooner. "Real." I tell him: "I love you."

**XXX**


End file.
